“Eye catching” and “feminine” are two words that really don’t describe me. “Fat”, “loud”, and “bitchy” are pretty typical. But when I heard the former I was a shoujo anime main character with my head down low, thanking her profusely.
And all because of the fucked up F train. Thanks MTA, bang-up job!
The Russian woman (I hesitate to use the designation former Soviet) needed to get the D to get back to Brighton Beach (Little Odessa/Moscow), so she asked me if the F was going to get off the R line for her to transfer at West 4th I told her when I was on my way to the Queens Center the F switched from the local to the express (A line) after Queensbridge, so I assumed it would switch back. “Yeah the brand spanking new PA system still makes the conductor sound like he’s choking on an elephant’s dick”, I agreed.
If you’ve ever had to endure the “educational homeless shelter” that is Kingsborough Community College (thanks Mr. Feldman!) then you’ve probably run into many colorful former Soviet peoples. The women redefine “fashionista”. This chick (a psychologist- the wonders of the USSR’s educational system) was rail thin wearing black Italian spike-heeled half-boots, leggings, a flouncy black skirt and fake fur jacket with glitter rimmed cat’s eye glasses. She was also pushing 60. But boy they can get away with it! And because I was wearing my Novica bling (amethysts and garnets are the only sparkles I find sexy) she decided to natter away like I was her old classmate at Kazan University.
But then she said she couldn’t help but ask me for help because she noticed my red lipstick. Well Kat Von D might not be totally off the mark (and I worship her Painted Love line), but I hardly think any NHL hotties would hardly stop play and get demolished by a Devils powerplay if my whale ass was planted on the other side of the glass at center ice because I’m sporting Underage Red. Nevertheless, tonight I was “feminine” and “eye catching”, all thanks to a little tube of red lipstick.
Like Lisa Simpson there was that one thing on my Xmas lists that Mom deeply considered taking me to the child psychiatrist’s for: the ruby slippers. It is my impossible dream. I remember Halloween ’85 when a psychotic childhood friend of mine went as Dorothy and I was Bugs Bunny. The psycho’s aunt made her blue gingham dress and white blouse that was an exact match to Judy Garland’s costume. But the only thing I saw were a pair of Mary Janes that were dipped in glue and doused in red glitter and sequins. I cried for a week. No, I bawled for a week. That’s how bad I was. I was fucking jealous! And y’know, it’s okay to be jealous over the stupidest shit sometimes.
Then I don’t know how many years later it was, but I was at my late great-aunt’s house and in the bathroom I found this ancient unused tube of red lipstick. Now I was taught (by a scary tale from Mom) never to put on anybody else’s lipstick, so I put a dash of it on my hand. It was a very nice shade, I think it was called Chinese Coral, so in really good lighting you can see that it’s in the orange shade of the red spectrum. Sad to say I have to stick to either the straight up “classic” (everything is fucking “classic” these days) red or “blood” red which is in the violet end of the spectrum. But it was then that I figured out that red lipstick could be my ruby slippers proxy, and I’ve stayed loyal ever since.
So whenever Klohe Kartrashian, Mr. Blackwell, or YouTube tell you that wearing red lipstick is taking a fashion risk, you can tell them to take a running jump into a wheat thresher. Because the last thing I need is to taste is Heidi Klum-Seal’s sticky-as-her-pap-smear Golden Tundra Download 2.0 Peacock Vibrator lipgloss in my Haagen-Dazs sorbet!